


Truce

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Javert is unconscious the whole time, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: As Javert recovers in Rue Plumet, Rivette and Valjean settle their differences and discover what they have in common.





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



Javert’s sleep was blessedly sound now. It had been a fitful hour, but the storm had passed as all storms must. Now he lay stretched out on an unknown bed in a sparsely furnished room in Rue Plumet, Jean Valjean sitting to his left and Rivette at his right. A brave little light was flickering on his bedside table, but it had not yet gone out.

Now that Javert seemed more stable, Rivette’s eyes were drawn to Jean Valjean. He’d changed into a clean shirt, but his throat was bare, the wet ends of his hair still curled against it. He was restless: Sometimes kneeling in apparent prayer at Javert’s bedside; sometimes sitting upright in the wooden chair, his fingers moving over a string of rosary beads; sometimes standing to pace the room.

He was on his feet now, measuring the tiny space with steps that grew shorter and faster with every stride. Louder too, until each thud seemed heavy enough that it was a wonder Javert was still asleep.

“Any chance you could sit still?” Rivette said finally. He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but there was no use taking them back.

Jean Valjean turned sharply, his eyes locking with Rivette’s. In an instant, Rivette had an idea of what Javert saw in this man. There were two decades of suppressed rage still frozen in that stare. But then Valjean’s eyes lowered and he exhaled a soft laugh. He returned to his chair. “Anything you say, Monsieur.”

“Not trying to inconvenience you in your own home,” Rivette said, catching the apology in his voice too late to stop it. In that moment he couldn’t decide who he hated more, himself or Javert or Javert’s pet criminal. “I understand this can’t be easy for you.”

Valjean’s shoulder rose in a helpless motion that was somehow graceful. The anger that had flared up earlier had burned away in an instant, leaving something unhappy but resigned. He turned his gaze upwards, away from Rivette and Javert. “I had a sense I might finish this evening among the police. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

He was a strange one, this Valjean. Rivette had always suspected that the picture Javert painted of the man must have been skewed in some way. But he could not have begun to guess at the difference between the scowling villain on the notices plastered throughout Paris and the hunched-over figure that sat a few feet away from him. Valjean leaned forward until his long body was bent almost double. He covered his face with large, work-worn hands.

Rivette was reminded, in some strange way, of the way Javert looked at the end of a long night. The posture was completely different, of course. Javert would never allow himself to be seen as anything less than upright. But after so many evenings, Rivette had learned to detect the grim set of the mouth and the barely visible sagging of the shoulders. And that was on an ordinary night. The signs were all on display a few hours ago, if only he’d been awake enough to spot them. He sighed.

Valjean looked up, questioningly.

“Should have known,” Rivette said, indicating Javert’s sleeping form with a jerk of his head. “Should have seen it coming.”

“You did know. You’re here aren’t you?”

It was true, he’d figured it out. Or at least, something must have told him that Javert would wind up back at Rue Plumet. One way or another he’d found himself on Valjean’s doorstep, his heart pounding in his chest. Valjean had opened the door, streaked with mud and his shirt clinging to his chest, and one look at Rivette must have told him all he needed to know. He nodded in the direction of an upstairs room and led the way.

Rivette ran a hand through his hair. Yes, he’d made it here, but not soon enough. If Valjean hadn’t tracked Javert down first… Rivette’s breath caught in his throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth, determined not to go to pieces here, in this unfamiliar room with Javert sleeping peacefully and close enough to touch.

Not that he would. Certainly not with the infamous Jean Valjean standing so close by.

He looked up and realised that Valjean was still watching him.

“I never would have guessed he had a friend,” said Valjean. There was something brittle in his tone that sent a defensive shiver through Rivette. He clamped it down.

“Well,” he said, avoiding Valjean’s eyes. “He wouldn’t have either, I suppose. But here we are.”

He turned his attention back to Javert, whose mouth was slackened by sleep. The harsh lines that seemed permanently etched into his brow were smoother. His lips were parted.

“He’d hate this. Us being able to see him in this state,” Rivette said, not looking away.

Valjean didn’t reply. He rose stiffly, took a few paces and then halted abruptly. When Rivette gave him a questioning glance, he was looking down at the bed, his hands still worrying the rosary bead. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he seemed able to speak. When he found his voice, it was low and urgent.

“My daughter is asleep in the other room. She’s done nothing wrong in her life. I know I’m not in a position to bargain, but please. When you take me, do it quietly, will you? Don’t wake her unnecessarily.”

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. And when they did, Rivette waved a distracted hand.

“Not my decision. It’ll depend on him.”

Valjean glanced down at Javert, then back at Rivette. There was something pitying in his eyes that Rivette couldn’t bear. But he nodded.

“Now sit down,” Rivette said, looking back down at Javert. He heard Valjean shuffle back to his seat and reached for Javert’s hand. “You’ll be sorry you missed that, Sir. Your favourite criminal, begging favours and taking orders.”

“He’s heard me beg enough for a lifetime,” Valjean replied, a bitter note to his voice. And yes, that sounded like the Valjean Javert used to complain about. The endless pleas, always on behalf of some other unfortunate. Always someone conveniently in need just as Valjean’s own number was up.

Rivette glanced at Valjean, who was staring at Javert. His lips were pressed together. His hands were pale on the bedcover, half reaching and half cupped in prayer, as though he’d intended to touch Javert but lost his courage at the last minute. There was no doubt that the man had a great many troubles, but Rivette still couldn’t understand why Javert’s wellbeing was one of them.

Still, Rivette had never had the full picture with these two. His eyes were drawn back to the agonised curve of those open hands, laid out on the bed. Perhaps Valjean had begged in ways that Javert had kept to himself. Perhaps Javert had made some bargains that had never made it into his final reports. Stranger things had happened. 

The thought stung. He spent a satisfying moment hating Valjean for whatever ways he’d manipulated Javert, pitying Javert for falling prey to Valjean and cursing himself for being fool enough to get himself caught up in this mess. And then selfishly, foolishly, he squeezed Javert’s hand. Because, whatever the reason, that was one thing Valjean couldn’t bring himself to do. 

Javert was as still as ever, but his hand was warm in Rivette’s grasp. His pulse was stronger than it had any right to be — the details, such as Rivette had been able to piece them together, were not pleasant. Rivette traced a circle on Javert’s palm with his thumb, half expecting the hand to be snatched away at any minute. It was rough, as he’d always imagined Javert’s hands would be. There were calluses formed from decades of wielding the whip and the cudgel. 

The shirt Javert was wearing was far too large, Rivette realised as his eyes moved to Javert’s wrists. The soft cotton was long and loose, pooling on the sheets. It wasn’t the shirt Javert had been wearing when he left the prefecture. Valjean must have changed him into it when he hauled him back. Was Javert conscious at the time? Rivette could hardly imagine him allowing Jean Valjean to undress him and put him to bed.

But then, there were a great many things Rivette had never been able to imagine before. And now the images were coming too fast for him to ignore.

He’d had inklings about Javert, of course. Not that he’d ever dreamed of acting on them — Javert had made himself untouchable in every conceivable way. And even if he hadn’t been Rivette’s boss, it was all too obvious that he only had one man on his mind. 

But that hadn’t stopped Rivette’s mind drifting. On restless nights he’d lie in bed plotting elaborate scenarios involving himself and Javert and the ever-elusive Jean Valjean, a brute with a villainous expression and a hulking form. Sometimes Javert needed help restraining his prisoner. Other times Javert had a mind to teach Rivette a lesson in proper oral technique and Valjean was all too happy to assist. Sometimes Rivette just imagined watching the two of them and, shameful as it seemed now, that had been enough.

So much for those pleasant daydreams. The real Jean Valjean was neither the brute Javert had described nor the anonymous quarry Rivette had conjured up to fill the gap in his fantasies. He had a hollowed-out expression that reminded Rivette more than anything of Javert’s expression in the prefecture just a few short hours ago.

Whatever Rivette had hoped for — and whatever designs Javert may or may not have had on Jean Valjean — this was not what any of them had in mind.

When he looked up, Valjean was watching him.

“It seems to me you care for him a great deal,” there was a note of accusation in Valjean’s voice. 

With some effort, Rivette kept his hand where it was. His heart had quickened at the words, though.

“And supposing I do?”

A short, biting smile. 

“Then you have my sympathy. Though I doubt you’ll accept it from the likes of me.”

The words stung. Probably more than Valjean had meant them to. Rivette stood, heat rising in his throat, and circled the bed. He took Valjean by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Valjean moved easily, something feral and satisfied in his eyes. 

“We shouldn’t discuss this in here,” Rivette said, keeping his voice pointedly low. Valjean inclined his head, following willingly when Rivette jerked his arm and pulled him out into the corridor.

It was dark outside the bedroom, without even Javert’s even breaths to break the silence between them. Rivette shoved Valjean backwards. He knew all too well that a man of Valjean’s strength wouldn’t move if he didn’t want to be moved but relishing the power of it anyway. Valjean’s back hit the wall with a satisfying thud and then he tensed up, eyes darting down the corridor.

“Let’s have it out, then,” Valjean said, his voice hushed. “But keep it down, for god’s sake.”

Rivette stifled a laugh. “You’re him all right, aren’t you? You may not look like the man on the poster, but you’re Jean Valjean.”

His hands were still on Valjean’s chest. It rose and quickly fell beneath them.

“I don’t deny it.”

“No you don’t. You don’t run or hide but you set the terms. You turn yourself in but you still give the orders. That’s how it works with you, isn’t it? The penitent mayor, the noble convict. You get people so twisted up they end up throwing themselves off bridges.”

Valjean tensed beneath his hands, “do not talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand very well. You were all he ever talked about.” All he ever thought about, no doubt. And where had it left him? Half drowned at the bottom of the Seine. Rivette fisted a hand in Valjean’s shirt. 

A hand moved to cover his and Rivette trembled. Valjean’s hand was rough but it was not unkind.

“I don’t know what you think...” Valjean began and then broke off. “You may have reason to hate me, I don’t know. But you have no reason to be...”

He faltered again. Then, with an effort, he said, “My daughter is the only person in my life. I haven’t taken anything from you.”

_But you have_ , Rivette thought. Because, like it or not, Javert was in Jean Valjean’s bed and wearing Jean Valjean’s old shirt just one room away. _And all the worse for the whole pack of us if you didn’t even know you were doing it._

Instead he said, “what do you want, then?”

“As I told you. When the time comes, I don’t want my daughter to suffer on my account. I want it done quietly, while she’s asleep.”

“Javert isn’t known for his willingness to accommodate requests from criminals.”

Valjean’s mouth twisted. “No, he isn’t.”

They were as bad as each other. Javert was maddening enough, chasing after Valjean. But now it seemed Valjean was infuriating in his own way. And was Rivette any better? Shouldn’t he have taken charge of the situation by now? Javert wouldn’t let himself get tangled up in this mess.

Except he had.

If the moon was out that night, it was not bright, and the corridor was illuminated only by the light that still burned in the bedroom. It was hard to make out Valjean’s expression, but Rivette watched as closely as he could.

“So what did you want with _him_?”

Valjean’s eyes fell closed. He lifted a hand to cover his face, but Rivette caught him by the wrist. Valjean’s breath caught, and when he opened his eyes, they were dark and wary.

“I don’t know. I knew he needed help.”

“You knew? You just… knew?”

“So did you. You knew well enough to come here.”

It was true. But it was another evasion. Rivette pinned Valjean’s wrist against the wall and Valjean’s eyes drifted to follow the motion.

“You’ve never seen the hulks, have you?” he said. He glanced down the corridor and lowered his voice. “They leave quite an impression on a man. Can you feel it?”

The skin of Valjean’s wrists was rough, abraded by years spent in irons. Rivette nodded. Then he startled. In the dark, Valjean’s free hand had darted out to grab Rivette’s. A large finger and thumb ran over his wrist, sending an involuntary shiver through him. Valjean made a thoughtful noise and then guided Rivette’s hand to the place where his shirt fell open.

Rivette hesitated for a moment, tightening his grip on Valjean’s pinned wrist. He glanced at the door to the bedroom, where the room was warm and Javert was resting peacefully and things still made some sort of sense. Valjean watched his attention shift, his pulse jumping under Rivette’s hand.

“He won’t wake up, not for a while yet.” There was a plea in Valjean’s voice that Rivette couldn’t understand. The hand pinned against the wall twisted in his grip and then fell still as Rivette’s hand slipped under his shirt. “Toulon left its mark on him too, you know.”

“Not like this, I don’t think.” Rivette’s thumb brushed against a scar that curled up and over Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean’s eyes fell closed, but he remained still.

“No. Not like this.”

What was Valjean trying to tell him? Was he trying to make some sort of point about Javert? Valjean’s breath quickened as Rivette followed the path of the scar, his hand moving first to Valjean’s shoulder and then breaking off to carefully trace the outline of a collar, still etched into his bared throat. Valjean’s breath hitched.

“Quiet,” Rivette reminded him, keeping his hand light. “Don’t want to wake your daughter, do you?”

_Or my boss, for that matter_. But Rivette kept that thought to himself, watching as Valjean’s stance shifted, his shoulders squaring as though he were bracing for a fight. And then, with an effort, he made himself still and pliable again.

“So why are you showing me this? You’re after some sympathy? You can have it for what it’s worth, but it won’t get you far. If you want revenge, you’re going about it in a very peculiar way.”

Valjean shook his head. He opened his mouth but no sound escaped. Instead, he pressed upwards into Rivette’s touch.

_I haven’t taken anything from you_ , the words echoed in Rivette’s mind. But it seemed things weren’t quite so simple. Valjean may not have taken anything, but there was a miserable longing in his eyes that Rivette knew all too well. He gentled his hand against Valjean’s throat, watching him wince as though something rare and precious were being withdrawn. 

Yes, it was all too clear what Valjean had in mind. And, as usual, it didn’t seem to matter how Rivette felt about it.

His own laugh startled him. Valjean gave him a questioning look.

“I was just thinking. You two have a lot more in common than you realise.” He loosened his grip. “Face the wall.”

Valjean exhaled sharply, stared at him for a moment and then nodded. He turned, his shoulders hunching imperceptibly and his hands automatically moving to brace against the wall. His head dropped a little and he flinched when Rivette laid a tentative hand on his broad back.

A strange man, this Jean Valjean. His desires and fears all knotted together. Rivette moved close enough to bury his nose in the crook of Valjean’s neck. He smelled of soap and the tang of fear. Rivette closed his eyes and thought of Javert at the prefecture, his uniform impeccable and his back straight. He exhaled against Valjean’s nape, feeling him shiver at the contact. And then, feeling daring, he pressed his mouth to that bare flesh, his lips brushing against hair still damp and curling at the tips.

Valjean pressed his forehead against the wall. He made a low, helpless sound and Rivette’s heart skipped in response. He pressed closer, until his chest was flat against Valjean’s back, and placed a hand on Valjean’s hip.

“What was it you wanted from him,” he asked again.

Valjean only shivered in response. Rivette slid his hand around Valjean until he found the half-hard outline through his trousers. He moved slowly, afraid Valjean might tear his hand away and terrified that he might not. It seemed that Valjean would permit anything at this point.

Under his hand, Valjean was growing stiffer. Rivette made an approving sound, as though this were something either of them might have wished for. His fingers moved clumsily on the opening on Valjean’s trousers and were met with no resistance. There was only the sharp intake of breath, the rise and fall of powerful shoulders and the slow drag of Valjean’s palm against the wall.

“I thought as much,” Rivette murmured unhappily. He shoved Valjean’s trousers down over his hips, his mind inexplicably drawn back to his training. Handling a prisoner should be impersonal and efficient, Javert had told him once. But if he’s roughed up a little in the process, it’s only to be expected. A serious-minded officer shouldn’t be afraid to sustain an injury or two himself, Javert had added, his eyes cool and level with Rivette’s. 

Rivette swallowed, closing his hand around Valjean, feeling the weight of an arousal that had nothing to do with him. It felt curiously familiar.

_Be sorry to miss this, wouldn’t you, Sir?_ he thought. And then he grimaced, hiding his face against Valjean’s shoulder as he reached down one-handed to free his own erection. Valjean’s feet shifted further apart at the rustle of cloth. Another mark left by the hulks, it seemed.

He reached down to cup Valjean’s hip, trailing fingers over the unexpected curve of a buttock. Valjean made a frustrated sound and Rivette ignored it. He couldn’t summon up Javert’s ruthlessness, not now that Javert himself lay victim to it on the other side of the wall. He ran his hand over a well-muscled thigh, enjoying the way Valjean’s dick stiffened further in his hand. He swiped a thumb over the sensitive head, smearing fluid and drawing an undeniable moan.

“You’ll take it from anyone, won’t you? Doesn’t have to be him, so long as you get what you need.” Was that Rivette speaking or Javert? Valjean’s breath came in a shaky rush and Rivette pressed his lips to Valjeans jaw, begging forgiveness with a blunt scrape of teeth. 

He pressed his erection against Valjean’s thigh. Could he go through with it? He thought of Javert, how easily he could take a man apart. Valjean could do the same with his strength, but for now that power was held in check as Valjean allowed Rivette’s hands to move over his body, suffering every hesitation and every nervous breath.

Valjean’s legs were still spread. Rivette ran a probing finger between his cheeks, drawing a shuddering breath when he found Valjean’s hole. He teased at it, feeling the twitch of muscle and wondering how they managed such things in the hulks. Spit and sweat and gritted teeth, no doubt. By the way Valjean was bracing himself against the wall, that was no doubt what he had in mind. Javert would most likely have obliged him, too.

“Close your legs,” he said, trying to make it sound more like an order than an apology. Valjean complied, his breath coming quicker now, and Rivette ran a hand over his thighs then settled his grip on Valjean’s hip. “Don’t panic, you’ll still get what you need. Close as I can manage, at least.”

Valjean’s dick was hot in his hand, and it pulsed with renewed interest as Rivette slid himself between Valjean’s thighs. Perhaps Valjean would like it if he pulled his hand away. No stimulation, no pain, only the pressure between his thighs reminding him that he was being put to use. Rivette’s hips jerked forward sharply at that, burying himself in flesh that should not have been so soft, his leaking precome easing the way.

He was generous with Valjean’s pleasure, working him with his hand, his mouth drawn again and again to that spot below Valjean’s jaw where the right kind of pressure made him whimper. Javert would never have figured that out, Rivette thought with a kind of weary pride. A part of him would have liked to draw things out, to stay in this strange place between the certainty of the past and the chaos that was coming. But Javert could wake at any moment and the yielding warmth of Valjean’s thighs was too sweet. It couldn’t last. 

He thrust again, his free hand coming up to Valjean’s chest, meaning to tease at a nipple. Instead he found himself wrapping an arm around Valjean’s chest, pulling him even closer as his mouth moved over Valjean’s shoulder, returning to the curved welt of the whip. Valjean came apart under Rivette’s touch, muffling a sob in his hand. He stood panting against the wall as Rivette plunged himself once, twice more between his thighs. 

Now that Valjean was finished, it seemed indulgent to hold on much longer, so he drove himself forward, pushing away all thoughts until there was nothing but the slick friction of their joined skin and the decades-old marks, rough beneath his lips. He came in a rush, pulling backwards to finish on the back of Valjean’s thighs. Then he slumped forward against that broad back. Let Valjean take some of the weight, he thought. If only for a little while.

They stood like that together, regaining their breath and finally still. Rivette moved to brush another kiss to Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean froze, muscles clenching at the touch he’d allowed only moments before, and Rivette jerk backwards.

“Perhaps we should...” Rivette drew back, taking in Valjean’s dishevelled form for the first time. His trousers were pooled at his ankles, his hair in disarray. His shirt was still pulled open at the neck to expose his shoulder, still marked with old scars and now with new, pink marks that crept up to his jaw. The back of his legs were sticky with mingled come. 

What would Javert think when he saw those marks, Rivette wondered, shame coiling within him. But there was a terrible kind of pride there, too. And a protective urge he couldn’t name. Something fragile and precious was now at risk.

Rivette took in a breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. There was not much he could set right at so late an hour, but at least there was this. “Hold still,” he said. 

He laid a hand, hopefully steadying, on Valjean’s arm as he reached down to clean up some small part of the mess he’d made. Valjean turned his face to the wall, allowing Rivette’s hands to move carefully between his legs and over the backs of his thighs.

Valjean allowed Rivette to dress him, Rivette’s hands moving with a bewildered reverence over the creases of his shirt, the rough cotton of his trousers. When Valjean turned to face Rivette, there was something mournful in the set of his jaw. His eyes moved to the bedroom door. Rivette followed his gaze, pulled in by the flicker of light that crept through the cracks.

Javert was still in the other room. Might they have disturbed his rest? Rivette’s heart stuttered at the possibility,

“He’ll still be asleep,” Valjean said, voice rough. His hand sought out Rivette’s in the darkness. There was no telling who he was hoping to reassure, but Rivette nodded, grateful for the clasp of Valjean’s hand. Valjean looked him over, then reached up to adjust a lock of his hair. His hand drifted lower and then lingered, gentle on Rivette’s cheek until Rivette could only close his eyes and press a kiss to his palm.

Finally he raised his eyes, meeting Valjean’s gaze. There was none of Valjean’s earlier challenge in his expression now. His thumb was rough but delicate on the line of Rivette’s cheekbone.

“He will be well,” Valjean said. “And— whatever it is you imagine is between us— he will need you. Now more than ever.”

It was hard to believe. Even now Rivette could feel Valjean’s strange magnetism. He could imagine a little of what Javert must have felt, inexorably drawn as he was to this most infuriating of men.

But Javert would need his hope and faith as much as anyone else’s. So Rivette gathered what little he had, and he followed Valjean into the light.


End file.
